Turnadette Neurosis
by Sara K M
Summary: The effect of Patrick's war neurosis/PTSD has on his marriage. Begins with season 3. Canon.
1. 3 x 7

Turnadette Neurosis

3 x 7

**Disclaimer: I don't own **_**Call the Midwife.**_

**This story will be posted either once a week or every other week but will always be on Wednesdays.**

The Turner flat had been uncomfortable for the past couple of days, and normally, Patrick would do anything to ease his family's pain. Did either Shelagh or Timothy need medication or therapy? Healing people was the focus of his life, and his family were the most important beings for him to heal.

And just as importantly, he wanted them to be happy.

"Patrick, the Children's Adoption Society will be here to interview us tonight," Shelagh's voice called as he was almost out the door. "Please don't forget."

"Shelagh…" He paused, trying to explain his nervousness. But, how could he?

"Patrick." Her eyes met his, and they looked uncharacteristically intimidating. "I need you to take this seriously."

Disappearing before she spoke again, Patrick sighed as he climbed into the motor. He knew she desperately wanted a baby, and he would love to give her one. He smiled softly as he remembered the night she had taken care of Carole. She had looked so beautiful holding a baby. Her entire face glowed as never before. When she suggested they adopt, he had no problem with that

But Patrick hadn't expected such rigorous background checks. Or an interview. Worries about things he'd tried to push away for years danced on the edge of his mind. He lit a cigarette and inhaled the calming fumes, and then focused on the road.

Pamela Saint's case hadn't helped, of course. The young woman clearly suffered from puerperal psychosis, and Sister Julianne and Patrick had done everything they could to help her and her family. But her husband, George, had been resistant to any treatment to his wife's condition. So often mental illness is misunderstood and treated as something to be ashamed, so the patient cannot receive help.

His heart beat faster as he remembered how close Pamela had been to throwing her baby in the Thames River to "get out the badness" as she had put it.

Patrick took another drag from his cigarette, trying to put that incident out of his mind. It was too close to things he'd rather not think of at all. It was time to focus on today's patients.

OOOOOOOOOOO

The interview made their flat twice as uncomfortable as it had been before.

When Patrick arrived home, Shelagh was studying several books, while trying to cook dinner at the same time. "I hope you look at these, too Patrick," Shelagh told him as he arrived. We need to be prepared for everything this woman may ask."

"Quite," Patrick agreed, wondering if there was anyway for him to be prepared for _everything_ she may ask.

OOOOOOOOOOOO

His heart beat faster as the Adoption woman finally arrived.

The woman stared at Patrick critically, as if he were a laboratory animal, rather than a respected doctor, sitting on his own settee next to his wife. Still, he tried to answer all her questions. He discussed his practice, his parenting philosophies, Timothy, and even his past with Marianne. Shelagh also answered questions about her midwife's training and her recent decision to leave the convent.

Patrick reached for her hand and gave it a squeeze, knowing how uncomfortable it could be for her to speak of Sister Bernadette and her former Sisters. The woman had better not judge Shelagh for her choices.

But as it turned out, it wasn't Shelagh who was judged.

"What occupied you between Apirl 1945 and December of that year, Dr. Turner?" the woman asked, staring at the laboratory animal even more closely.

"I… I was injured," he said, not certain what else to say.

"Could you be more specific?" the woman demanded.

"I'd prefer not to," Patrick said. This couldn't be happening.

"You were discharged from the army," the woman stated.

The walls were closing in on him. "You must understand, it was near the end of the war. I was in the medical corps, trying to save lives, and…"

The woman studied the laboratory animal and obviously found him wanting. "You were an inpatient at Northfield Military Psychiatric Hospital for five months, while you were being treated for war neurosis."

He felt Shelagh let go of his hand, and his heart almost stopped.

"I was warn out," Patrick tried to explain again. "There was too much death."

The woman simply stared at him as if he still was a mental health patient. Unsafe and unwanted. He supposed that's what he was.

OOOOOOOOOOOOO

After the Adoption woman left, the flat felt three times more uncomfortable. Patrick picked up the books they'd had sprawled over the table, trying to ease the tension. Shelagh always preferred the flat to be kept neat.

But Shelagh didn't allow that. She followed him, screaming, "How could you not tell me?"

"Because I'm recovered. Because I manage," Patrick screamed back. He couldn't talk about this. He could almost feel his hands start to shake again. He needed a cigarette, not a screaming wife in his ear.

"How can you treat patients when you clearly cannot treat yourself?" Shelagh said, her eyes flashing in a way he'd never seen before. But her words bothered him far more. In fact, it felt as if she'd slapped him across the face. Apparently, Shelagh thought he wasn't a competent doctor anymore. Instead, he was still a mental patient.

Unsafe and unwanted.

OOOOOOOOOOOO

Much later that night, Patrick sat on the settee once again. Shelagh had already gone to bed, but he wasn't ready for that yet. The match from his cigarette glowed in the dark room, keeping him company. Was he truly unsafe and unwanted, Shelagh and the Adoption woman told him? Of course not. He had hundreds of patients that relied on him for care every day.

He tried to picture all the people of Popular, smiling as he gave them medications, delivered their babies, and soothed their worries. But behind those happy faces were horrible images from the war. Images he'd pushed away as soon as he'd left Northfield.

Images that had been dancing on the edge of his mind ever since he'd discovered the Adoption Society's background checks.

Patrick took a deep drag, inhaling the calming effects of the nicotine, and forced those thoughts out of his mind again. Timothy, he told himself. Think of Timothy's smile. Think of how wonderful it is to see him walking again since the boy had recovered from polio.

He fought against the images of soldiers screaming in their hospital beds, pleading for their mamas.

Yawning, he lit another cigarette and realized this was the last one in the pack. Had he really smoked over twenty of them in one evening? He inhaled again, deciding to worry about it later.

_Timothy_, he pictured the look on his son's face when they took of the calipers.

OOOOOOOOOOOOO

_Patrick ignored all the moaning and screaming in the room to concentrate on his patient. A twenty – something young man with a bullet in his shoulder. Somehow, he was still alive. But Patrick needed to retrieve the bullet as soon as possible without damaging the nerves. _

_He poured more alcohol on his hands, and gently felt inside the wound. But it seemed the bullet was further than he thought. He doused an instrument in alcohol and tried to reach the bullet with that._

_Yet the young man died the next morning. And Patrick hated it. There were so many soldiers that were beyond saving when they arrived. He desperately wished to save the others. It was so painful to him when they died anyway._

_But he pushed away his own sorrow to focus on new patients. Wounded soldiers arrived at the base hospital all the time, and those that were not already dead needed doctors. Bullet wounds, burns, missing limbs, blindness, and suffocation were common to him._

_But even more common than the injuries were the way the boys tossed, turned, and called out in fear while they slept. Nothing would make a wounded soldier jump more than the sound of an airplane overhead. They were certain the dive bombers would hit them._

_And just as many cried for their mamas as they shook with fear from the possiblity of the tankers crushing them or burying them alive. Ironing, many of the soldiers called it._

"_Dig deeper!" one soldier screamed as he tore at his bed. "The tanks are coming, and we need to be in holes. Where the ironing won't kill us."_

_The nurses were invaluable for such patients. He admired the way they soothed the tormented soldiers in their dreams and as the woke. Still, many soldiers had to be restrained. One boy almost tore his stitches when he tried to dive under his bed._

_But despite all the sorrow, Patrick continued. He must. He was a doctor._

_One day, a soldier was brought to Patrick with his leg blown off. He was bleeding profusely, but he had been bandaged well, so the medics thought he could be spared._

_Patrick stared at the soldier. He wore Timothy's face. He needed to be saved. _

_Patrick doused his hands in alcohol and stitched up the boy's leg as quickly as he could. Then he demanded the boy have water, to replenish his blood loss. Timothy would be fine._

_For some reason, it was suddenly almost winter, and Timothy was trying to fight off pneumonia even as he dealt with losing his limb. Patrick gave him all the penicillin he could. The boy would be all right. He had to be._

_Somehow, it was immediately spring, And Timothy still couldn't handle his missing limb. "I have no life anymore," he complained. "I'm barely twenty years old, and I'm not a whole man. I can't be just some cripple!" Patrick would do anything to see his smile again. So would the nurses. But Timothy never smiled again._

_Because one morning he was dead. Somehow, he'd found a container of medicine and swallowed the whole thing._

_Patrick couldn't see any more patients after that. All he could see was Timothy's face after he'd killed himself._

OOOOOOOOOOOOO

Waking up on his settee with a sore neck, Patrick shook all over. Bloody hell, what a nightmare. It was bad enough, remembering when Private Bryant killed himself after Patrick had done everything to keep him alive. The soldier had been so young. Barely more than eighteen. But this time it was so much worse.

It had been Timothy.

Tears fell all over Patrick's face as he remembered seeing his son dead in his dream. It brought back all the pain from last Christmas, when Timothy had almost died of polio. Without thinking, he rushed into his son's room, needing to see he was all right.

He listened to his son's soft breathing over and over again, tears still leaking out of his eyes.

How could Shelagh do this to him? She'd forced him to think about things that he'd managed to bury for years. And what had happened? Exactly what mental health professionals at Northfield had warned him would happen. All the pain from his war neurosis returned. And it was worse than ever.

OOOOOOOOOOOOOO

There was a box of cereal on the table.

Shelagh would not make them homemade breakfast this morning, then. It was probably for the best. Patrick wished to leave the flat as soon as possible. He was in desperate need of cigarettes.

It was surprisingly easy to eat his cereal and drink his tea without looking at Shelagh. Perhaps because she didn't wish to look at him, either. Patrick didn't care.

Unfortunately, it seemed Timothy did. He glanced from Patrick to Shelagh several times as he ate his cereal, as if he was trying to understand what was wrong. Sometimes he wished that boy wasn't so observant. "Dad, don't you think the blouse Mum is wearing looks nice on her?" Timothy asked as Patrick put on his coat.

Almost against his will, Patrick turned to see Shelagh in a beautiful blue blouse that brought out the color in her eyes. "Yes," he said quickly, before dashing out the door. She may be gorgeous, but Shelagh still caused that terrible breakdown last night. Furthermore, he still felt the sting of her words from the night before. "How can you treat patients when you clearly cannot treat yourself?"

It was time to prove Shelagh wrong. He was a good doctor who could treat everyone in Popular. Just as soon as he had another pack of cigarettes.

OOOOOOOOOOOOO

Patrick struggled to focus on his patients that day, instead of his failures. Private Bryant. Countless other soldiers who died no matter what he did. The terrible image of Timothy in Private Bryant's place. He lost count of how many cigarettes he'd had today.

He stayed at the Surgery much longer than strictly necessary. After all, there was always paperwork.

The smell of roast greeted him when he arrived home, much to his surprise. And Shelagh immediately took his bag and coat from him, with a soft smile on her face. "You look tired. But I know that's because you work so hard. I hope you have time for a nice meal bed."

She pulled his dinner out of the oven. It tasted warm and tender, exactly the way he liked it.

It was obvious this was Shelagh's form of an olive branch, or perhaps even an apology, and she wanted him to respond. She apparently decided he was a good physician, after all. But the terrible images from his nightmare still danced on the edge of his mind.

And Shelagh was responsible for that. He could still barely look at her.

Yet, when it was time for sleep, he opted for the bedroom. He was still a bit sore from sleeping on the settee. Shelagh's words from last Christmas echoed in his head. "You wouldn't fit. Your feet would hang over the end."

Indeed.

And his soft flannel pajamas. Hopefully they would protect him from more nightmares, as they had in the past.

**The background for this story, particularly this chapter come mainly from: **_**Dr. Turner's Casebook, The Last Full Measure: How Soldiers Die in Battle, **_**and **_**The Souvenir: a daughter discovers her father's war.**_

**The one thing I don't believe the show addresses is that the medical opinion for handling "recovered" war neurosis at that time was to not think about it and not talk about it to anyone. The show does a good job illustrating Patrick's shame about his mental illness, but his "I should have told you about my war neurosis" makes no sense to me, considering he would have been told not to talk about it to anyone when he left Northfield. It would also be the advice in the **_**Lancet**_**, if that spoke of it at all.**

**I hope to explain Patrick's decision to speak to Shelagh about his mental illness, after all, in this story, particularly the first two chapters. It should fit with canon and with my research for the time period.**


	2. 3 x 8

3 x 8

For the next few days, Shelagh appeared to be trying to be the perfect wife for him. She made his favorite dinners and cooked elaborate desserts. She took special care of his medical bag. She handed him a cup of tea exactly the way he liked it. She offered to take his overcoat to the dry cleaners. His wife was obviously trying to prove she still loved him.

Timothy appeared to support Shelagh, telling Patrick of Shelagh's great meals and desserts. But then, he'd always known the boy preferred her cooking to Patrick's.

He appreciated her effort, as Patrick always valued her caring nature. Sometimes he tried to respond with a kiss on the cheek. But it still took so much effort to push away those memories from the war. If only Shelagh hadn't pushed him…

Marianne had never pushed him like that. She accepted there were things about the war Patrick did not discuss, and he had loved her for that. Why couldn't Shelagh have done the same?

OOOOOOOOOOOO

A letter arrived from the Children's Adoption Society one day. Nervously, Shelagh opened it, her quiet voice growing louder as she read the letter to him. "We are pleased to say you have been accepted as adopted parents. We are certain you will be able to give an otherwise unwanted child a happy home."

Despite all their problems, Patrick's heart swelled at the wonderful news. An image of Shelagh holding a baby appeared in his mind, and it was beautiful.

But her next words chased the image away. "They seem so certain about that. But I'm not sure we have a happy home," Shelagh said, shaking her head.

Wrinkling his nose in confusion, Patrick just stared at her. What did she mean? Did she truly not wish to adopt a baby anymore? Or did she simply expect all the distance between them to disappear, because she wished it? What did Shelagh want him to do?

It was no matter. He had patients to see. People who would approach him with illnesses and injuries and he would be able to heal them and help them. Because he knew what they wanted.

OOOOOOOOOOOOOO

Among his house calls that day was to the Noakes' flat, because of Nurse Noakes mother, Lady Browne. The poor woman was very ill with an illness Patrick would rather not think in detail.

"Keep her comfortable," he told Nurse Noakes and her husband, the constable, as the old woman reclined against the settee. "If she isn't able to go up the stairs, she will need to stay here." He hoped their settee was more relaxing than his own was. But they seemed to be providing her with steady cushions and blankets.

He also provided Lady Browne with liquid morphine, as he understood better than others how much pain the woman would was in. And it would only become worse. His heart beat a little faster, scared of such thoughts. He forced away the memories of how bad the pain could be before the images swarmed in his head.

"As soon as a bed becomes available, she should be transferred to hospital," Patrick finished as he prepared to leave. He needed to vacate this flat before it became too painful for him.

"I know what it is," Lady Browne suddenly said, breaking the tension in the air, and forcing them to confront the elephant in the room. "That no one will talk about. Why is it that no one will say it?"

Patrick's heart beat faster and faster as the old woman forced him to face his fears. "Because it is the thing that we fear the most." And it truly was. The day he'd discovered Marianne had cancer was the scariest day of his life. Much scarier than all the dead patients that he'd watched leave the army hospital, even Private Bryant.

Because Marianne hadn't been a mere patient. She'd been his wife. He would have done anything to save her, but there was nothing to do but watch her wither in pain as she became weaker and weaker. Even worse, Timothy was forced to watch his mother die as well.

As Patrick left the Noakes' flat, it suddenly occurred to him that he was close to losing Shelagh as well. Not to cancer, but to his own distance. However, this time, he had the opportunity to save his wife, if he could just tell her what she wanted to hear.

He picked up another cigarette and inhaled deeply.

OOOOOOOOOOOO

With a steady supply of nicotine, Patrick drove from flat to flat, finishing his house calls.

When he finished, he drove a bit slower, wondering if he could really tell Shelagh what she wished to hear. It went against his instinct as a doctor to tell her that he should have discussed the war neurosis with her. As both a doctor and a patient, he knew it was better not to speak of it. But if saying that would give him Shelagh back and allow her to be happy again, would it be worth it?

Shelagh had made him so happy ever since she'd called him from the sanatorium and said she'd recovered. Even more when she'd met him on the misty road, declaring she'd "never been more certain." If only they could have that again…

Somehow, he'd found the courage to write to Shelagh when she was in the sanatorium. Could Patrick find that courage again? As he thought back to those letters, he realized he'd told her some things he'd never told Marianne in them. Like how much he'd enjoyed listening to his mother's stories when she was a nurse. Or the difficulty he had with old, cranky patients that didn't want doctors.

He always wondered if he'd said too much in those letters. Or maybe not enough. But according to Shelagh, they were exactly what she needed at that time.

Perhaps she was correct about speaking of the war neurosis, too. Perhaps the only reason why he hadn't done so was because Patrick had become a coward.

He inhaled the nicotine again, hoping it would give him strength.

Things were so much easier with Marianne. All Patrick had to say was, "I don't want to talk about it," or "I can't speak about that," and she would smile and nod without a word.

_But Marianne isn't here_, he reminded himself. Shelagh is. And he couldn't lose Shelagh, which is exactly what may happen if he kept distancing himself from her. Nor could he allow Timothy to lose another mother. The poor boy had been desperately trying to fix his parents' row by constantly praising his mum, Patrick realized.

_Timothy._ An image of baby Timothy appeared in Patrick's mind, with that same mischievous grin. He and Marianne did have a terrible row one night after he'd returned home. He'd just finished consulting a middle – aged man's overdose, and Private Bryant's case threatened to swarm through his mind again.

Patrick had pushed those images away as hard as he could and focused on seeing his son. If he could just bathe Timothy, everything would be fine. There was nothing more therapeutic than washing a little baby, especially if that baby was his own son.

But Marianne hadn't understood at all. "Patrick, I've already bathed him for the night. He's just barely gone to sleep," she protested as he prepared to bathe Timothy.

"Marianne, sometimes this is something that I need to do," he had tried to explain. It was the only thing that was guaranteed to erase those terrible images that threatened him.

"And sometimes you need to understand a baby needs to go to sleep," Marianne had shouted.

Could that argument have been easier if Marianne knew why washing an infant was so important that night? If she'd known more about his history with war neurosis?

Patrick shoved the idea away. He couldn't think of that now. He had to find a way to speak to Shelagh.

OOOOOOOOOOOOO

The soft light in the sitting room made Shelagh look even more beautiful. Patrick paused to simply look at her for a moment through the hutch. His heart beat faster and faster as he prepared himself. This would be worth it if they could mend the distance, he reminded himself. If he could have his wife again.

He picked up his cup of tea, which of course Shelagh had prepared exactly the way he liked it and took a sip. "I remember you sitting in that chair, sewing a baby night dress," he said, hoping that was a good way to begin this conversation.

"Yes," Shelagh sighed, her eyes looking sad. "It wasn't meant to be. I gave it to Sister Julianne. Someone else's baby will have it now."

Now Patrick was desperate to wipe those sad eyes away. He compelled the words out of his mouth. "I should have told you about my war neurosis," he said, sitting next to her. "The fact that I didn't was my shame."

Shelagh was so much stronger than he was, and he knew it. She completely changed her life when she left the convent, she faced the heartbreak of her infertility better than he expected, and she had no mental problems in her past. But despite feeling inadequate next to her, Patrick admired her more and more.

When they first married, Shelagh seemed to believe she needed to be the perfect doctor's wife. She dressed a certain way, spoke a certain way, and appeared to be trying to be the ideal housewife. Not to mention the perfect stepmother for Timothy. He knew she did this because she loved him and wanted to help his reputation, especially after all that nasty gossip concerning their relationship in the beginning.

But he would much rather her just be Shelagh. His strong, caring woman who made her own future. Leading the choral society was a nice beginning, but this, he realized was even better. "A perfect doctor's wife" wouldn't tell him to discuss his history with war neurosis, but Shelagh did.

"When I dared to write to you, I thought 'Have I said too much or not enough? If I didn't speak of other things, that was my weakness and my fault," Patrick continued, forcing the difficult words out of his mouth. His heart still pounded. "Can you forgive me?"

"There's nothing to forgive," Shelagh said softly, her blue eyes staring at him without any sadness. Patrick felt his heart grow. She may be strong, but she was also soft and forgiving.

A perfect combination.

OOOOOOOOOOOO

It was surprising, how quickly Patrick fell asleep that night. It seemed such deep conversations were emotionally exhausting.

Nevertheless, he woke up with an enormous sense of peace the next day, especially as he met Shelagh's soft smile. "Good morning," he greeted, giving her knuckles a kiss.

Shelagh's smile brightened at that. It was going to be a wonderful day.

OOOOOOOOOOOO

Patrick did have a productive day at the Surgery, but when he returned to the flat, Shelagh was not having a wonderful evening. "It seems another choral society has already chosen the same piece I had chosen, so I have to find another piece of music," she explained in a panic.

His poor wife searched through many old sheets of Marianne's music and records, littering the sitting room with the materials.

And of course, Timothy chose that time to ask, "What's for dinner?" like it was the only thing that mattered at that point.

Patrick took one look at Shelagh's face and offered to buy the three of them fish and chips. Shelagh may be stronger than him, but Patrick still loved the chance to help her when she needed it.

OOOOOOOOOOO

Later that night, Shelagh was no closer to finding a new piece of music for her choral society, despite her full stomach and how many pieces she'd studied. Her face was still tight with concentration.

Patrick offered her his cigarette, knowing how much nicotine could soothe his nerves, and still wishing he could do something to help her. He had to admit, watching her take a puff was also quite arousing. He loved the way her lips curled around his cigarette.

"May the good Lord bless and keep you…" the newest record blasted as Jim Reeves sang.

Shelagh's tight face melted into a smile at the music. "Jim Reeves," she said softly.

"You and Jim Reeves," Patrick corrected, feeling compelled to take her in his arms, dancing with her. Everything he'd been feeling in the past few days exploded in his heart. From the love he'd felt increasing for Shelagh after finally telling her about his war neurosis, to the enormous peace he'd felt laying with her this morning, to his pride in helping her tonight, and finally climaxing with the extreme arousal that had been growing all evening.

Her sweet, sparkling blue eyes met his as their bodies brushed against each other again and again. Everything felt warm.

Perhaps Jim Reeves still sang in the background, but Patrick didn't care one way or the other at this point. Shelagh seemed to agree, with the way she eagerly followed him to the bedroom.

For a moment, they simply stared at each other, realizing what a huge moment this was for them. It wasn't their wedding night, but in some ways, it was more than that. It was the rediscovery of their intimacy after all that distance.

It was, they decided at the same time, exactly what they both wanted. Nodding, Patrick carefully unbuttoned his waistcoat and threw it on the floor, while Shelagh unpinned her hair.

Almost in a trance, he reached out and touched her silky, honey – colored hair that now fell all around her shoulders. "Beautiful," he whispered.

Shelagh gave him another one of her soft smiles. Then she took a deep breath and removed her blouse, carefully folding it on the dresser when she finished.

Patrick stared at her creamy back for several moments. Then he slowly unbuttoned his oxford and threw it on the floor as well. He felt warmer as he realized she was staring at his chest and smiled back.

She gazed for a few more moments before removing her brassier. Patrick couldn't stop himself from touching her soft, lovely breasts. Over and over again. "Shelagh," he whispered as he did so.

"Patrick," she whispered back, with her eyes glazed. He adored that look on her. Without thinking, his lips somehow connected with hers. Gently at first. And then more intensely.

They were almost on the bed when he realized he hadn't taken off his trousers. Shelagh giggled, noticing she also hadn't removed her skirt.

Patrick discarded his trousers and underpants as quickly as possible, leaving them on the floor with all his other clothing. Shelagh, meanwhile, carefully shimmed out of her skirt and folded it neatly, just as she always did.

Finally, she removed her underpants. And Patrick had to stop and marvel at her. Her lovely breasts. Her creamy skin. Her silky honey – colored hair. Everything that made her Shelagh.

His arms encircled her, pulling them towards the bed, just as her sparkling eyes met his again.

"Patrick," she said, touching his chest, warming him in the best way.

"Indeed," he said, as his lips connected with hers again. Then her neck, which caused delightful moans from Shelagh.

There were more kisses after that, although Patrick wasn't certain how many. But each one was more wonderful the last. And when at last their bodies joined… it was everything.

Better than everything.

"Shelagh…" he whispered again when they finished. "I can't believe… " he tried to explain. But he knew he couldn't. So, he kissed her hand instead, knowing she would understand.

"Quite," she agreed with a tender smile, snuggling against his chest as they drifted to sleep, feeling closer than they ever had.

OOOOOOOOOOOO

Patrick felt so close to Shelagh in everything he did. As he worked at the Surgery, he thought about how lucky he was to have a wife as understanding as she was. As he made house calls, he was overcome with gratitude that he hadn't lost another wife, but instead become closer to her.

Meanwhile, Shelagh prepared for her choral society competition, along with Timothy, who would play the piano. Patrick did everything he could to assist, from telling Shelagh and Timothy what fine musicians they were to offering to buy fish and chips any time Shelagh was too busy to cook dinner.

But the day of the choral society competition arrived, and they had another surprise. The best surprise they could have ever had. The Children's Adoption Society called. They had a baby girl ready to adopt. At last Shelagh would be given her dream of a baby. And Patrick could finally give it to her.

It really was the best day of their lives, especially when Patrick saw the beautiful, healthy looking baby girl laying in the crib with the sunflower. She would be theirs.

"Here's your mummy," he told the baby as he finally placed her in Shelagh's arms. And with that, they became a family, along with Timothy.

OOOOOOOOOOOOO

They called their adorable little girl Angela Julianne, and they all took turns feeding her, speaking her, and making cute faces to her. It was even more wonderful than the night Carole had stayed with them, because they knew Angela was a permanent part of the Turner family.

OOOOOOOOOOO

All Nonnatus wished to meet the newest member of the Turner family, and so when the women threw a going away party for Nurse Lee, it also became a "welcome" party for their little girl. "She's adorable," Nurse Franklin smiled at their baby.

Patrick and Shelagh grinned in agreement.

"And I hear you are already a wonderful big brother," Fred said to Timothy, giving the boy a slap on the back.

Timothy grinned. "I have to be the best," he agreed.

Sister Julianne even returned the baby nightdress Shelagh had sewn. "I kept it," she said. "For you." Patrick felt the room fill with even more warmth between the two women as they hugged. Sister Julianne believed they were meant to have a baby and had kept the special baby dress until the time was right.

"I'd really like to thank you for returning that nightdress to Shelagh, Sister," Patrick said later, while Shelagh let the other nurses coo at the baby. "I don't know if I can explain how much it means… to her…," his voice trailed off as he stared at Shelagh's expression while she held Angela. She was such a mother.

Sister Julianne smiled, staring at Shelagh from a distance as well. "I knew the Lord meant for her to have a baby, Dr. Turner."

Then she turned to face him, her wise eyes staring into his. "He meant for _both_ of you to have a baby. You are already a wonderful father to Timothy, and I know you will be equally as wonderful to that little girl."

Patrick nodded, feeling the woman's warmth himself. "Thank you, Sister." He'd been grateful that Shelagh and Sister Julianne had found a way to maintain their affection even after Shelagh had left the convent. Even now, they considered each other extended family. But he'd never expected Sister Julianne to include him as a part of her family as well, and it was maginficent.

And then in an instant, everything changed.

Sister Julianne continued to smile at him. "I mean it, Dr. Turner. No matter what you believe about your past with your war neurosis, you will be the best father for Angela."

Patrick forced himself to smile at her, trying to remain neutral. But the rest of the room disappeared. The sounds of the party faded from his ears. The words _war neurosis _swarmed around his head over and over again. Sister Julianne knew about his past. And the only way she could know was if Shelagh had told her.

Despite his blazer, waistcoat, and oxford Patrick felt completely exposed and naked. How could Shelagh reveal such a thing to anyone? Did his wife understand anything about him?

OOOOOOOOOOOO

It was rather easy to push Shelagh away from him again, especially considering she was so busy with Angela. All Shelagh's focus was on feeding, changing, and rocking the new baby. She didn't seem to notice he barely spoke to her anymore. And kisses were no more than a memory.

Even Timothy's focus was on Angela and his new science project, rather than his parents' distance.

The Turner flat felt cold and distant to Patrick once again, and he took to spending as much time as possible in his office. But eventually, he realized that didn't help. Everywhere he went, he still felt naked and exposed. He sensed the midwifes, his patients, and all their relatives were all staring at him when he wasn't looking.

Why did Shelagh have to tell Sister Julianne about his war neurosis? Didn't she understand what a dark secret it was?

One night, Patrick returned to the flat to Shelagh feeding Angela a bottle. Despite how cross he was, he couldn't help but stare for a moment. Such a wonderful image of the girls he loved. And he wanted to be close to them again.

"Shelagh, how could you tell Sister Julianne about my war neurosis?" he asked as he took off his coat and put his medical bag away. He suddenly realized, just as before, that the only way they could get through this was to speak about it out loud.

Shelagh stared at Patrick, her blue eyes growing wider and wider. For several moments she didn't say anything. Finally, she sighed. "I suppose I shouldn't have said anything without your permission. But it was only Sister Julianne, Patrick. She didn't think less of you for it."

Patrick sensed his anger build more and more. She really didn't understand at all. "That isn't the point, Shelagh!" He wagged his finger at her without thinking and raised his voice. "That was a very dark period in my life and I'm still coming to terms with it. I can't have people wondering about me or asking about it."

Shelagh automatically looked down at Angela. "Calm down, Patrick. We need to be mindful of our baby now." Relieved that the little girl seemed all right, Shelagh removed the bottle from her mouth and patted her back, obviously hoping to help her burb.

Then she sighed again. "But you are right, and I am truly sorry that I spoke about that, even to Sister Julianne. But you must understand, Patrick, I'm used to telling my problems to her. She's always been my confident. And when you wouldn't speak to me either, I needed to speak to someone who would help me understand. Sister Julianne did that."

Patrick shook his head, still trying to accept the fact that Shelagh had told his secret to someone else. Still, he knew his wife and Sister Julianne had always been close. Hadn't he been thankful they'd been able to keep their close relationship not even a week ago?

"I do promise you, Patrick, that I won't ever tell another soul," Shelagh promised her blue eyes staring into his. "No matter what."

Patrick sighed. "I suppose that's all I can ask for at this point." He sat down next to her, watching as she continued to caress Angela's back. "I suppose it's better that you know, at any rate. I used to think it was better that Marianne didn't ask about it, but now I wonder… There were so things she didn't understand. Couldn't understand…" His heart thumped faster and faster as he considered speaking about this more.

Shelagh's eyes grew wide again, as he spoke. Patrick supposed she didn't realize that Marianne hadn't known about his trouble with mental illness. But he continued anyway, his heart still thumping louder and louder. "Part of my therapy at the hospital was to bathe newborns, and I can never get over how much it helped. But Marianne… she couldn't understand that. I can remember several arguments because I needed to bathe Timothy, and she'd already put him to bed."

Patrick would never forget the tender, loving look on Shelagh's face. "You are welcome to bathe Angela any time."

Her words were the most precious gift he could ever receive. "Thank you," he whispered, staring right into her beautiful blue eyes.

Then they both giggled as Angela let out a soft burb.

"And Patrick, I should have said this before, but I'm sorry about that comment I made a couple of weeks ago. About not being able to treat patients because of your history with mental illness?"

Patrick paused for a moment, trying to remember what she was referring. Then he recalled the night of their adoption interview when this was all exposed. And Shelagh's comment that made him feel as if he'd been slapped. "Quite," he said, because that was all he could say.

"I should never have said or implied you were a poor doctor in anyway. I was cross, but I should still have known better. You're the best doctor there is. And your going to be the best father to this little girl." She smiled as she glanced at their baby, who had fallen asleep in Shelagh's arms.

Her words warmed him from head to toe. "And you are the best Mum," he said, staring at Angela.

It was funny. Two weeks ago, Patrick had blamed Shelagh and the adoption agency for his brief relapse with war neurosis. But now, he understood that Shelagh and Angela had helped him through it more than anyone ever could. Somehow, Angela had created a bond between them much stronger than just husband and wife or even mother and father.

"


	3. 4 x 5

4 x 5

**Disclaimer: I don't own **_**Call the Midwife.**_

Patrick had been somewhat surprised that he didn't have any relapses since he'd spoken to Shelagh about his war neurosis. Perhaps it was because he hadn't spoken about it in much detail? Or dare he hope that it was truly behind him?

Either way, he had other thing to focus. Important things which kept his mind off his mental illness. Baby Angela was a joy, and he loved being a father to her and Timothy. Even better was watching Shelagh care for their children. She was a wonderful mother.

Also important were all the people in Popular who depended on Patrick for medicine and other doctoring. Keeping the Surgery took a lot of time, as did the weekly antenatal clinic. But soon, to his delight Shelagh decided to help him, and it was wonderful to see her become even more than simply a doctor's wife. Work was so much easier with Shelagh also at the Surgery, and her great organizational skills allowed him to help more patients.

Eventually, Shelagh began to worry, however. Especially when he agreed to cover for a couple of other General Practitioners in the area. "You're tired," she told him one morning after she handed him a cup of tea. Her tone implied he was doing too much.

But that didn't matter. The patients were the most important aspect at the Surgery, and they needed his help. Besides, with Shelagh here to help, there would be no problems Patrick couldn't handle. She always provided him with a cup of tea, an encouraging word, a cigarette and an ash tray, or a comforting arm exactly when he needed it.

Not to mention the way she saved his medical files. Yes, everything would be fine with Shelagh here.

OOOOOOOOO

And suddenly Patrick was face – to – face with a problem that Shelagh couldn't help. Raymond Prendergast was a newborn baby with two fractures. He won't stop screaming, his mother said when she brought him into the clinic. And indeed, his wails appeared to go on forever since Patrick examined him. The poor baby. Patrick's heart broke for the baby and the mother as he called the ambulance.

But the hospital X – rays showed something even worse. These fractures weren't small, as he was used to seeing if a mother had dropped the child lifting him out of the bath. The bones had been crushed. How could such and injury have happened to baby Raymond?

Desperate for answers, he spoke to the doctor who had seen the baby in hospital, but Patrick hated the answer the Dr. Baker gave him. "So, in your view, this couldn't possibly be have been an accident?" Patrick asked, his chest tightening at the horrible thought.

Dr. Baker shook his head sadly.

Even more desperate to help this baby, Patrick turned to baby Raymond's parents. They appeared to love their son, after all. Perhaps they remembered a serious accident that Raymond had in the past few days? "If you had any idea how this happened – " he began. "I'm trying to help you and help Raymond."

But the young father shook his head, his eyes angry. "You think we're hiding something. You think it's our fault."

Patrick sighed. He really didn't know what to think. Except that he had to do something to help this poor baby. With that in mind, he decided to speak to someone he trusted, who luckily also delivered Raymond Prendergast.

OOOOOOOOOOOO

Handing the X – rays to Sister Julianne, Patrick sighed, explaining that it appeared the newborn had been assaulted.

"Do you think that's what's happened here?" Sister Julianne asked in her gentle, yet caring manner.

"I don't know," Patrick stared at the X – rays again, looking for answers. "Are you absolutely convinced the first fracture was at birth?"

Sister Julianne sighed. "It seemed like the most likely scenario at the time."

"And now?" Patrick persisted, almost afraid of her answer.

"We must wary of jumping to conclusions," she said in her gentle manner.

Patrick nodded, understanding exactly what she meant. "I agree. I do, but we have a tiny baby with two painful fractures. Can we live with ourselves if he were to sustain a third?" The baby's health and safety had to be the most important thing, and he was certain Sister Julianne knew that.

They needed to contact the National Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Children.

OOOOOOOOOOOO

Even with several cigarettes, Patrick still couldn't relax when he finally returned home that night. And even putting on his flannel pajamas hadn't helped him sleep that night. He kept seeing the heartbroken look on Mrs. Prendergast's face when she realized her baby was unavailable to her. He kept seeing the angry expression on Mr. Prendergast's face.

And then he looked at Angela as she stared at him innocently, and he remembered Raymond Prendergast's terrible fractures. Patrick's heart clenched, reminding himself that he had done what was necessary to protect the baby.

Suddenly feeling Shelagh's soft touch around him, he felt both comforted by her and guilty that he'd bothered her when she was already sleeping. "I didn't mean to wake you," he whispered, even as he leaned closer into her arms. "I just can't sleep."

"You've had an awful day," she said, squeezing him a bit. It was one of her quiet ways she showed him support. He tried to draw strength from her action, but it was difficult under the circumstances.

"These things are awful," he said. "Even when you know they're right." His heart still ached for the looks on the parents' faces earlier today. Certainly both of them weren't guilty…

Shelagh nuzzled her cheek against his pajamas, as if she was just as comforted by them as he was. It surprised him that she'd never asked why he always slept in flannel pajamas, even in the hot July weather, but he loved her acceptance of that. Perhaps they both needed them tonight.

"And because of you, the baby is safe tonight," Shelagh said as she kept nuzzling.

Patrick sighed, and tried to take comfort in her words. The baby was safe. That was the important thing.

OOOOOOOOOOO

Worrying about baby Raymond wasn't going to help him, Patrick told himself the next day. He had so many other patients to see, especially with the Surgery so busy lately.

He saw several cases of sunburn, a child's ear infection, many colds that people worried might be another case of diphtheria, three cases of chicken pox, and two grumpy old men who complained of sores on their feet. Shelagh was right, sometimes all these patients could be tiring, but Patrick knew he was needed and loved helping them.

They also kept his mind away from little Raymond Prendergast.

OOOOOOOOOOOOOO

Until the evening baby Raymond's foster mother brought him in with a panicked look on her face. "We've been so careful with this baby, Dr. Turner," she said as Patrick gently set the baby on his examination table. "But every time I pick him up, he screams."

Patrick had to admit, the baby didn't appear any better. If anything, he appeared more distressed than before. His heart shattered at that.

"And look," the foster mother continued, "there's a lump on his back."

Patrick examined the baby's back as well. She was correct. It felt like the baby had another fracture. How was that possible when he'd done everything to keep the baby safe?

"Dr. Turner, we haven't hurt him," she said, the woman's eyes pleading for him to agree.

"I know you haven't," Patrick said immediately. There must be another explanation. Suddenly something clicked in his mind. A rare disease he would have never thought of… If he could just check… How did this not occur to him before he'd separated that poor baby from his parents? He'd failed this child.

"It's brittle bone disease," he announced, his heart shattered even more after he'd confirmed his worst fears. A genetic, deteriorating condition that meant baby Raymond may not live beyond a few years. "Shelagh, we'll need an ambulance."

OOOOOOOOOOOO

The baby's parents were angry and cold as he told them the proper diagnosis for Raymond, just as they should be. Sister Julianne tried to tell them that brittle bone disease was difficult to identify, but Patrick stopped her. He knew she was only trying to placate him because of Shelagh. Ordinarily, he liked the Sister considering him extended family, but it wasn't helping today.

He'd failed this poor baby and no amount of placating would help. At least now, Raymond would have other doctors to care for him.

And Patrick still had many other patients to care for at the Surgery.

Still, a couple of different images haunted him that night. One was baby Raymond screaming in pain from his broken bones. Another was the baby's mother and father, desperately missing their son. The last was once again Raymond's parents staring at him with cold eyes as he explained the proper diagnosis for their son.

He inhaled all the nicotine he could and searched anxiously for his flannel pajamas when he arrived home.

OOOOOOOOOOOO

Trying to block out the horrible images involving baby Raymond, Patrick focused on his other patients the next day. He still had so many people to help, and they all depended on him.

Still, it wasn't easy. He'd failed with that baby. What if he failed another patient?

Fred Buckle walked into his office with a friendly, trusting smile on his face. Was it better or worse to treat a friend who believed him so much? "I've had some back pain lately, Doc," the man explained.

Patrick ignored the voices in his head that shouted, "You can't do this!" and took off Fred's shirt anyway. Then he began feeling around the patient's back, looking for signs of trouble. "How's the water works?" he asked carefully. "I like to ask that with back pain, in case it's the kidneys."

"Fine," Fred said, as Patrick continued examining his back. "I had some back trouble in the war – " he began.

And suddenly Patrick's hands started shaking as the overwhelming fear took route. The war. Private Byrant. The other patient he'd failed, causing a death that never needed to happen. All the other soldiers who'd he'd been unable to save flashed through his mind, in addition to the many patients he'd tried to treat in the last two weeks. He'd probably given them incorrect diagnoses and treatments, too.

Patrick was a failure. A complete failure. The voice shouting "You can't do this!" become louder and louder. "Fred, will you give me a minute, please?" he asked, realizing that Fred was still in his office, waiting for his back to be treated.

His hands were still shaking when Shelagh entered the room. "What is it?" she asked quietly, her eyes still showing love.

He stared into her eyes, feeling both adored and unworthy at the same time. How could he possibly explain? "I don't know… What if it happens again?" Then Patrick sighed, remembering the patients still waiting outside. It didn't matter if he was a failure or not. There were still people who needed help, and he was the only one who could provide it. "Never mind, just send Fred back in, please?"

But Shelagh shook her head firmly, love still in her eyes. "No, Patrick, you're not well. I'm taking you home."

OOOOOOOOOOOOO

That night, Patrick's flannel pajamas were no help in sleeping. He tossed and turned, suffering terrible nightmares all night.

Private Bryant, baby Raymond, and Mr. and Mrs. Prendergast surrounded him, shouting "I wish you'd never been a doctor! What a failure you are!"

Another dream consisted of a soldier who'd lost a photograph of his girl. "I have to find it, Doc," the boy said, fumbling with his bedsheets, frantically searching. "Kathy said she thought it might keep me safe. It's the only thing keeping me alive."

Patrick knew the antibiotics against the gangrene in his leg was actually keeping the boy alive, but if this young soldier believed he needed that photograph, he'd help the other man look. So, Patrick looked under the bed and all the nearby beds. He looked clear across the hospital; in case someone had kicked it. Patrick looked everywhere for weeks, but they couldn't find the picture of this young man's "Kathy." He'd failed him, too.

Yet another consisted of Patrick finding Private Bryant dead again, the empty medicine bottle next to him. Patrick's hands shook as he stared at the bottle, eventually dropping it. How did this patient obtain a bottle of medication like this? Had Patrick been careless, leaving medicine laying around? What could Patrick have done so this man wouldn't kill himself? His hands shook faster.

His hands were still shaking when he awoke that time, and Patrick stared at them in horror.

He was developing war neurosis again. He'd thought he'd recovered, but somehow it was happening again. How was that possible? The doctors at Northfield told him once he'd recovered, he could move on with his life, so long as he didn't think or talk about his horrible experiences. But he hadn't been talking about it this time. Or even really thinking about them.

It was probably too much to hope, that he could put war neurosis behind him. He was too much of a failure for that.

OOOOOOOOOO

Waking up still tired, Patrick yawned and stared at Shelagh. She was already dressed for work and explained her plans. "You stay here today, and I'll take care of the Surgery."

He wasn't certain whether he should be grateful to her or disappointed in himself. "I'm letting everyone down," he sighed. He realized he was a failure, but he wished everyone in Popular didn't have to know that.

Shelagh shook her head. "You're not well. You're exhausted," she told him gently, climbing back on their bed to give him a hug and a kiss he didn't deserve. Not a failure like him.

"I expect you're a safer pair of hands," he said as she left the room, trying to comfort himself with that knowledge. Shelagh was the best nurse he ever known. At least she could take care of their patients. They deserved her attention more than he did, anyway.

OOOOOOOOOOOO

The next week was a blur of sleepiness, Shelagh providing him with tea and comfort, and Patrick pushing the nightmares away. But even as the bad dreams disappeared, he still couldn't do anything else. He couldn't see patients at the Surgery; he couldn't be a proper husband to Shelagh, and he couldn't even speak to either of his children.

He was a complete failure to everyone.

OOOOOOOOOOOO

One afternoon, Patrick woke up to use the lao and began wandering around the flat, wishing he could do something. Glancing in the sitting room, he realized it was covered with gifts. Where did they come from and why were they here?

Timothy walked in with a huge smile on his face, explaining the many different gifts and cards from the people of Popular, wishing him to feel better.

Patrick stared from Timothy to the gifts and back to Timothy again. He didn't understand this at all. Why would they all waste their time and money on a failure like him? "They can't afford this," he said, uncertain what else to say.

"They want to do this because they care," Timothy said firmly. Patrick realized it was the same voice he used when he told a patient they must take a certain medication. "Because whether you believe it or not now, you're a good doctor. If I'm half as good as you someday, I'll be proud."

Patrick stared at his son, wondering if he could truly believe all these people thought he was a good doctor. Even more importantly, did Tim believe that? Could he possibly still look up to Patrick after the way he'd behaved this past week? Hope rose in his chest.

As he pondered this, the new Sister Mary Cynthia entered the flat. She told him of a patient terribly ill with diphtheria, and the ambulance was taking too long. "Please doctor," she pleaded to Patrick. "She's struggling to breathe."

He nodded and dressed himself in record time.

OOOOOOOOOOOO

Unfortunately, Patrick realized too late that his medical bag wasn't available. He'd have to go to the Surgery and retrieve it. Running in as quickly as he could, he spotted a blue uniform and shouted, "Sorry, nurse, I need my bag!"

The nurse turned around and his beautiful Shelagh stared back at him. Patrick's eyes widened as he admired her, looking ever inch the wonderful nurse she was. Smiling, Shelagh eagerly said, "Then I'll get it for you, Doctor." It occurred to him that she appeared very happy to see him and sounded proud that he was once again treating a patient.

But she wasn't surprised. Perhaps Shelagh didn't think he was a failure, either? Was it possible after everything Shelagh saw this week? Even more hope rose in his chest.

It was something to think about later. Now, Patrick had a patient to help.

OOOOOOOOOOO

Sister Mary Cynthia had been correct. The patient was struggling to breathe, as Patrick could hear the terrible, painful gasps coming from her mouth, as she lay on the bed.

His chest tightened as he listened to the unhealthy signs. She might stop breathing all together any time. "She needs a tracheotomy," Patrick told Sister Mary Cynthia and Nurse Gilbert.

"But the ambulance won't get here in time," they protested.

"I know," he said as his chest tightened even further. "I'm going to have to do it." Ignoring the tiny voice in his head that still whispered, "You can't do this!" Patrick gathered his supplies and instructed the nurses how to assist.

His hands shook for a moment, and Patrick almost panicked. Had the war neurosis returned once again? But then he focused his attention on the patient who needed him and performed the tracheotomy.

A wonderful deep breath from the patient hit Patrick's ears as soon as it was finished. He _did_ do it. He hadn't failed this time. He saved the patient. Mrs. Khatun.

OOOOOOOOOOO

The ambulance arrived at the Khatun's, and to Patrick's surprise, his other colleagues said he had done well. He barely had any time to think about that before a beautiful blue angel appeared.

Shelagh smiled at him, holding the diphtheria vaccines for all the Khatun's. She was such a strong woman and a caring nurse. She'd become exactly who she meant to be. Not just a wife and a mother. Not only a woman who helped Patrick face difficult subjects. Not just a medical secretary. And not even just a nurse. But all the above. And Patrick loved her all the more for it.

And by the way her blue eyes glowed at him, for some reason, she still loved him, too. She knew he wasn't a failure. Patrick's heart swelled.

OOOOOOOOOOOOO

Shelagh assisted with giving the vaccines, and Patrick admired her wonderful nursing skills again. She was sweet, caring, and efficient all at once. When they finally finished, she offered to clean up all their materials.

Patrick shook his head. She was even more wonderful than he'd ever realized, but she now she needed to take care of herself. "No. I've put you through too much this week."

Shelagh shook her head, picking up things already. "No. You're not well. You may not understand that but – "

"I didn't then but I do now," he said, stepping closer to her. She was correct. He had been ill, just like he was in Northfield. And now he was better again. His hands no longer shook, and those horrible images didn't flash in front of his eyes. "There was a moment I thought…" How could he explain how horrible it was to her, to have this happen again? How afraid he was that his war neurosis would return, and he wouldn't recover this time?

But Shelagh looked into his eyes and somehow understood exactly what he meant. "It's not going to happen again, Patrick," she said, stepping closer to him as well. "This isn't the war."

That was true, but there was another more important reason why it wouldn't. "I know," he said as he wrapped his arms tightly around her soft waist, feeling her strength and her love. "Because I have you." With that, he leaned in and kissed her, not caring that they were in the home of a patient. No one could see them, anyway.

Shelagh had given him exactly what he needed this week. She'd cared for him and loved him no matter how low and useless he'd felt. More importantly, she'd kept the Surgery open. Not only so the patients would be cared for, but so it would be ready when he returned to be the doctor he was supposed to be. She'd believed he would return all along.

Somehow, she'd always believed he wasn't a failure.

OOOOOOOOOOO

They picked up the materials together and walked home, overwhelmed at the joy. He was a doctor again. Shelagh was his nurse. And they were closer and more in love than ever.

Timothy greeted them with a huge smile. He didn't even mind when they both hugged him.

Then they all ate a warmed casserole, brought over by another grateful patient. Shelagh fed Angela some potatoes with gravy. Everyone seemed to be in a good mood.

"I thought you might like to give Angela a bath tonight, Patrick," Shelagh said, sounding causal as she began cleaning up the kitchen.

In the distance, Timothy rolled his eyes and said, "Mum why would Dad want to do that?"

But Patrick barely heard him. He just kept staring at Shelagh in awe. How could she possibly know exactly what he needed tonight? As he washed Angela, he felt all the rest of his shame wash away. Each limb he scrubbed, he felt lighter and lighter, and each of Angela's smiles made him feel more and more like the father he should be.

"Thank you so much, Shelagh," Patrick said, staring into her beautiful blue eyes after he'd handed her Angela for her bedtime feeding. "I knew you were a wonderfully strong and caring woman when we married. The way you cared so much for Timothy. And the way you decided to start a whole new life. With me, of all people. But Shelagh… this week… He shook his head as he stared at her while she fed Angela. "You've been strong and caring enough to take care of our whole family and the Surgery all at once. While I did nothing."

She gave him that sweet tender smile he'd fallen in love with. "I didn't do it all myself. Timothy was a big help, especially at home. As were the other Nonnatus nurses at the Surgery." Typical Shelagh. Always so humble. Another reason why he loved her.

"And Patrick, I thought we've been through this already," she said less softly. "You didn't do 'nothing' this past week. You've been recovering from an illness. It took a lot of strength to recover and return to work today. I know it did. You are a very strong man, too."

Patrick sighed, feeling his heart swell in his chest. At least she thought he was strong.

"Still, when I think about how much you helped me… " he shook his head, remembering what the doctors told him when he left Northfield. _Move on with your life, _they said. _Don't think about it and don't speak about it to anyone_. Could the doctors, experts in mental health, possibly be wrong about that, especially if you were married to a woman like Shelagh?

"I was told not to speak about my war neurosis when I left the hospital," he finally said.

Shelagh's eyes widened and her mouth dropped open. "Really?"

"Yes. They said that was the best way to prevent it from returning."

"I see," she said slowly, as if trying to wrap her mind around this new information. She paused rubbed Angela's back, trying to expel the gas. "I'm sorry I pushed you into speaking about it, then," she finally said looking at the floor.

This was exactly why he'd never told this to her before. He didn't want his Shelagh to feel guilty. "No, Shelagh, that's what I'm trying to tell you. Obviously, I usually believe in following doctors' advice."

They both chuckled at that.

"But in this case, I think it's better that you know. Maybe it's because you're such a great nurse. Maybe it's because you're just you. But you knew what I needed this week, and it helped so much Shelagh. And… whatever started it had nothing to do with me speaking about it at all."

Shelagh beamed at him. "Then you can speak to me about war neurosis and any lingering problems with it any time you need to do so. And I'll do my best to help you."

With that, she picked up Angela and brought her to bed.

It was a perfect end to a perfect day.


	4. 5 x 8

5 x 8

**Disclaimer: I don't own **_**Call the Midwife.**_

Patrick listened to Susan Mollucks's steady heartbeat at the antenatal clinic. Despite the baby's deformities with her limbs, she was mostly healthy and was growing well. With the child happy smiles and coos, one would never know she had no arms or legs.

Susan was one a few babies who had been born with such deformities in their district, and Patrick was trying to understand why. But in the meantime, he did his best to help the children and their parents. "She's doing very well under the circumstances," he told Rhoda Mollucks.

But Rhoda shook her head. "When she's all wrapped up in her blanket, she looks normal. And sometimes I think she is. And then, I wake up in the middle of the night and I remember. She's got no arms and no legs!" she sobbed as she stared at her little girl.

The poor woman was understandably overwhelmed. How could Patrick help her?

But Shelagh, the beautiful blue angel, immediately stepped in and comforted the mother. "You're doing so well, Rhoda," she said, placing her arm on Rhoda's shoulder. She was always the perfect person to soothe another.

Rhoda shook her head again. "I remember you said that when I was having her. But isn't the pain supposed to be over now?" she said, her brown eyes pleading for an end to her grief.

Patrick really needed to do something to help this woman, as even Shelagh couldn't help Rhoda's extreme grief. Remembering her comment about waking up in the middle of the night, he asked, "Are you sleeping, Rhoda? Because we _can _help with that. I can prescribe a mild sedative, and you can take it only when you need to. It's called Distaval."

Rhoda's eyes shone with hope. "Well, if we can't help her, at least we can help me."

Patrick nodded in agreement and wrote out the prescription, knowing too well all the problems that came from lack of sleep.

OOOOOOOOOO

Fortunately, both Patrick and Shelagh slept well that night, and as it was Saturday, he spent the morning playing with Angela. His little girl was growing up so fast, already walking and saying a few words, particularly "Ma – ma," "Da – da," and "Timfe."

Angela grinned as Patrick handed her more pinecones. She was so precious.

Shelagh's voice rang in the background, asking about buying their girl a doll's pram for Christmas. Patrick pretended to push the idea aside, but secretly, he'd already planned to do just that. In fact, he would soon have a catalogue delivered, so they could examine all the different models for doll's prams.

Timothy entered, all smiles because it was Saturday, and because they got their edition of the Lancet. Patrick also elected his son to help choose the doll's pram.

And suddenly their happy family day shattered with a phone call.

"Patrick," Shelagh said, like she was trying to keep her voice steady but failing. "You're needed at Nonnatus."

Something was very wrong. This wasn't another routine house call because Sister Monica Joan was a bit ill. Patrick's chest tightened. "What is it?"

"It's Sister," Shelagh paused and took a deep breath while Patrick's chest tightened even more. Those Sisters meant everything to his wife. He immediately wrapped his arms around her, and she accepted his comfort for a moment before pushing him away.

"Evangelina," Shelagh finished. "They need you right away," she told him firmly, picking up his coat and shoving it in his arms.

In other words, Shelagh needed him to get answers right away. He made a dash for his motor.

OOOOOOOOOOOO

Sister Evangelina died. Probably of another stroke while she was sleeping, he told the Sisters. The woman was older, but she was such a strong force, he had trouble accepting she would no longer be around.

The nuns asked him several questions, but he simply shrugged. How could he know what to do under these circumstances? How could anyone?

OOOOOOOOOOO

Eventually, Patrick returned home, explaining what had happened to Shelagh, just as she asked. "It was a stroke," he told her immediately as he hung up his coat. "It looks as if we can avoid a post – mortem," he added, as he sat down next to her at their table. He hoped that would be as much of a comfort to her as it was to the Sisters at the convent.

But Patrick's heart broke as Shelagh looked up at him with tears in her eyes. "Oh, Shelagh, I forgot how much she meant to you," he said, immediately putting his hand on hers. Why didn't he try to return home sooner? "Who am I going spar with now?" he tried to joke, although it felt flat.

Shelagh shook her head and wiped away her tears. "I'm not crying about that," she said firmly. "Well, I was but then I decided Sister Evangelina wouldn't like it. So, I went to get the morning post and, look," she showed him the paper.

Patrick stared at the headline, attempting to make sense of it when he'd already used so much mental energy attempting to make sense of Sister Evangelina's death. "Distaval is being withdrawn?" was all he was able to say.

Shelagh nodded. "Babies have been born deformed, and they think there is a link." Her eyes were dry, but she still sounded tearful. As she should, if that was true.

But it couldn't possibly be true, could it? He studied the paper, looking desperately for other, more probable explanations. "But it says there have only been two confirmed cases, and none in Great Britain."

But Shelagh shook her head, her eyes still sad. "Distaval is being withdrawn, Patrick," she said as if that confirmed everything.

Perhaps it did. Patrick sighed, feeling rocks being pressed onto his shoulders. If the Distaval was responsible for the deformities, then he had failed. Again. "Shelagh, I have prescribed Distaval to dozens of patients. Perhaps scores." She put her hands on his and squeezed them to comfort him, but now wasn't the time for that.

He took a deep breath. "Deformed babies have been born in our district. We need to act," he told her firmly. If he'd failed his patients again, the least he could do was try to find answers now to make things better.

Shelagh nodded immediately. "Quite," she said, of course. As medical professionals, they'd always believed finding out more was the best way to solve a problem. They were a team.

So, after promising Timothy more money if he watched Angela today, they both headed for the Surgery.

OOOOOOOOOOO

Shelagh immediately picked up the phone, prepared to ring the board of health, while Patrick began looking through their files, checking which patients had been prescribed Distaval. He searched through file after file, while she spoke firmly on the phone.

Pausing, Shelagh suddenly told him firmly, "Patrick, you don't know the filing system. Let me do that."

She was right, of course. Shelagh was much more organized than he, and these files were arranged to fit her needs. But did she really have to tell him how ineffective he was at this? He was already a failure at prescribing medicine. Patrick thought there would be something he could do here today to help, but apparently not.

Shame and sorrow overwhelmed him as he sat in his own Surgery, able to do nothing. There was only one thing to do. Even though Patrick promised Timothy he wouldn't smoke any longer, he pulled out a spare cigarette and inhaled the comfort of nicotine.

Shelagh stared at him, still on the phone, as he smoked. She didn't look happy. He supposed he failed again. But at least she didn't lecture him.

OOOOOOOOOOO

Soon Sister Julianne and Nurse Crane arrived at the Surgery, just as surprised about the withdrawal of Distaval and its possible harmful effects. "We need to find out more," they all agreed, horrified.

Nurse Crane immediately took charge, naturally. "Sister Julianne, you should return home. There are things there that only you can do." Patrick's head momentarily stopped buzzing about the Distaval as he remembered the death of their dear colleague. And a member of Shelagh's family.

Glancing at Shelagh, he wondered how she was handling this on top of the Distaval. But as usual, Shelagh was focused on the task at hand, explaining the files to Nurse Crane. She probably thought expressing her feelings was selfish right now.

Patrick desperately wished to comfort her, but perhaps now wasn't the time. It was time to understand what happened with this drug.

OOOOOOOOOO

All the nurses poured over the Surgery's files, looking for connections between the deformed babies and the Distaval. Meanwhile, Patrick spoke to other doctors as they all desperately tried to make sense of this situation. They all had to do something.

His heart sunk lower and lower as they realized the truth they wanted to avoid. "I have a positive for Ruby Cottingham," Nurse Crane said in a voice far too neutral. "At first, I thought no, but then I looked further back. About four years ago her husband was at sea, and she had three young lads underfoot. Dr. Turner diagnosed her with sleeplessness and anxiety and prescribed Distaval. She must have had some left in the cupboard. People do."

So, there was another patient he'd failed. How many more were they? "I prescribed it!" he screamed, horrified. "I don't know how to put this right." Shelagh stared at him with love and shook her head. For some reason she didn't believe he was to blame, but it was obvious he was.

Meanwhile, he received another call from a fellow G. P., who prescribed Rhoda Mulluck's sister with Distaval about the time Susan would have been conceived. More and more evidence mounted. Distaval was a horrible drug.

A drug Patrick had willingly prescribed to way too many patients, including Rhoda Mullucks, most recently. His heart sunk to his feet. He 'd failed again, just like with Private Bryant. Why did he always think medicine was the answer when it was often the problem?

"Doctor you are not to blame," Nurse Crane said firmly, as Patrick once again thought of all those prescriptions he'd written for Distaval.

If only it were that simple. Truly he had tried to help, but all those women took those pills because he told them they should. "Oh, I will be. If one more woman, pregnant or otherwise, swallows one of those vile pills," Patrick said, his heart somehow sinking lower than his feet.

Somehow Shelagh's hand appeared on his shoulder, squeezing him gently. Perhaps it helped a little, that she was there, helping him, even though he was still responsible for this mess. Patrick's heart moved back up to his feet.

OOOOOOOOOOO

Still, his heart refused to climb any further than his feet when they finally returned home. Even Timothy's jokes and Angela's "Da – da," couldn't lift it. Patrick kept focusing on those poor women, taking a pill he prescribed for them, thinking it would help. And Private Bryant. He'd believed he could help the man, even without his legs. He thought pain relief drugs would help him.

And instead, Patrick caused them an extraordinary amount of pain. Too much, according to Private Bryant. He just kept failing. How could Patrick live with this?

"Patrick," Shelagh said as she put her hand on his shoulder again. Her voice sounded as if it was from a great distance. Still, he tried to focus on her, anyway. She only trying to help. And wasn't she doing so, even a little?

"Shelagh," he muttered, pulling her closer to him.

"I know this is difficult for you," she said gently. "It's difficult for me, too. I hate to think of so many of our patients suffering. But Patrick, you can't keep blaming yourself for this."

"How else can I see it, Shelagh? I was taught to understand medicine would always help people, and it's something I've always believed. So, I prescribed the drug, and it harmed so many women. So many families. I failed those people. And," he sighed, reaching into his memory to a part he kept locked until recently. "This isn't the first time I've let medicine harm a patient," he admitted, reminding himself that Shelagh could help with his effects of war neurosis.

"It isn't?"

"No," he took a deep breath, pretending to inhale the calming effect of nicotine, as he finally spoke out loud about this. "In the war… there was a patient name Private Bryant. He'd lost both his legs, and I was treating him, trying to help him accept his new life. But one day… maybe I left my pain pills where he could find them, or maybe I wasn't watching him take the drugs closely enough. But he overdosed. It's… what triggered my breakdown," he whispered, feeling his heart sink again as Patrick pictured that poor man's dead body.

Shelagh tightened her arms around him. "Patrick, from what I understand, you did everything you could to help Private Bryant. And I know you do everything you can to help our patients. That's all you can do. All any of us can do."

Patrick sighed, feeling her love surround him. "I wish I could believe that, but for now, it's enough that you do." Where would he be without her support? He turned around and kissed her hand, showing his own adoration.

"Would you like to give Angela a bath before she goes to bed?" Shelagh asked, sounding causal as she walked away.

"Yes," Patrick said as his heart finally returned to his chest. He had been correct last year. His war neurosis would never be a problem again. Because he had Shelagh, who knew what he needed.

OOOOOOOOOOO

The next day, Patrick tried to remember Angela's innocent face as he washed her and the sound of her giggles. He recalled Shelagh's soft cheek nuzzling against his flannel pajamas in their bed. Most of all, Patrick repeated Shelagh's advice over and over in his head. "You did everything you could do to help our patients. And that's all you can do."

Still, it was difficult. Distaval was a horrible drug, and they were only beginning to understand its effects. Nurse Crane came that morning and informed him there were even more patients who'd taken it than they thought because so many people were sharing Distaval.

Patrick's heart dropped again as he pictured all those people, passing around the drug, spreading the harmful effects to more and more people. "Prescription patients have been passing Distaval around as if they were nuts at a party," he commented, once again wishing he'd never prescribed it to anyone.

He fought the need for another cigarette, instead focusing on Angela's innocent, happy face as he'd washed her the night before.

Then he returned to helping the patients. As Shelagh had told him, it was all they could do.

OOOOOOOOOO

Eventually, Rhoda Muluck's, whose family had been on a holiday, heard about the problems with Distaval and returned to the Surgery.

Patrick sighed and gently asked her if she had taken her sister's medication when Susan may have been conceived.

Rhoda stared sadly at little Susan as she spoke. "She gave me a few in an envelope. 'Better than gin' she'd said. 'And not as addictive.' That little pill did this to my baby?" she asked tearfully, caressing Susan's limbless feet.

Patrick's heart broke for the woman as she continued speaking, wishing he could do more to help. He wished he could do more to help all the patients he'd failed.

"I can hear them now," Rhoda said as tears filled her eyes. "Why'd did you think you needed a pill to sleep, Rhoda? Why couldn't you just handle it yourself?"

"You are not to blame, Rhoda," he told her firmly, just as Shelagh had told him. He hoped Rhoda would find it easier to believe than he did. As Rhoda continued crying, Patrick conjured an image of Angela's innocent face as he washed her in the bath.

_You can't keep blaming yourself_, Shelagh's loving words rang in his head.

OOOOOOOOOOOO

Patrick struggled with feeling as if he failed his patients, but Shelagh constantly reminded him he was not with her words and her touch. She was invaluable.

But today they had attended Sister Evangelina's funeral, and now his Shelagh wouldn't stop crying. In the turmoil over the Distaval, Patrick had almost forgotten about the nun's death. Briefly, he wondered what the woman would say about the recall of the drug.

Then Patrick focused on Shelagh again. She wiped her eyes, trying to hide her tears as she cleared the dinner table. She'd been doing that all afternoon. This had gone far enough.

If Patrick couldn't do enough to help his patients with their deformed babies, at least he could help his wife.

"Shelagh," he whispered, placing his hands on top of hers. "You don't have to hide your tears from us. We all know you loved her. Give yourself time to be sad. " Shelagh's big heart was beautiful, but he knew it also opened her to pain. He'd known that for a long time.

Shelagh nodded and placed the dirty dishes in the sink. "Sister Evangelina wouldn't want people to feel sorry for her just because she's dead. You know that, Patrick. And there are so many other things to do. I have to take care of these dishes." She began filling the sink with soapy water, but Patrick shook his head and gently pulled out her hands.

"That may be true, but you aren't just crying because you're sorry Sister Evangelina is dead. You are crying because you miss her, and don't try to tell me otherwise." Her watery blue eyes met his, and she nodded. She instinctively tried to wipe her tears away again, but he stopped her, placing her head on his chest. "Just cry, Shelagh. I won't mind, and Sister Evangelina will forgive you."

She did. His hands gently stroked her honey – colored curls as she sobbed. His chest hurt to listen to his Shelagh cry, but paradoxically he loved being able to comfort her, especially after all she'd done for him in the past few days.

He and Shelagh would always take care of each other. It was the way they loved.


	5. 6 x 6

6 x 6

**Disclaimer: I don't own **_**Call of the Midwife.**_

"There's so much to do before the move," Shelagh was saying as he and Timothy munched on their bacon and eggs. "That's why I want you to go through your things and put everything you don't want into a box," She held up a large brown box for each of them. "I've already filled a box for myself and Angela."

"Why do Dad and I each have a large box, while you and Angela only have one small box between the two of you?" Timothy asked.

Patrick had wondered the same thing, but he sat quietly and chewed on his eggs instead of saying anything. Shelagh already had enough to worry about with her pregnancy and trying to organize the move. He was still rather concerned about her because of her miscarriage scare a couple of months ago, especially considering they weren't supposed to be able to conceive. And the situation between the United States and Russia didn't look good from the papers.

Angela, meanwhile, sat at the table coloring as if the conversation didn't bother her. As if none of the worries in the house affected her. Patrick hoped they didn't. She was far too young to have worries beyond finding her next crayon.

"Because Angela and I don't have a tendency towards hoarding," Shelagh said to Timothy as she placed more items in boxes.

Patrick looked at his son and they both laughed, breaking all the tension in the room. Were they really hoarders?

OOOOOOOOO

Yet no matter what problems they had a home and whether or not he and Timothy were hoarders, he always had problems with illnesses and patients to heal.

Today, he received a visit Sister from Sister Julianne about Sister Mary Cynthia. She had suffered a breakdown after vicious assault and had been in Linchmere Mental Hospital for several months.

Sister Julianne sighed as she explained the situation to him. "Linchmere is not an appropriate environment for Sister Mary Cynthia. We need to secure her discharge."

Dr. Turner's chest tightened. He'd been afraid of this. Although Linchmere had a reputation as a good mental institution and many doctors refereed patients there, he'd wished Sister Mary Cynthia could have been sent to the mental hospital that he was familiar. Northfield had been invaluable to his recovery from war neurosis, and he knew they could've helped the young nun as well. But at least Sister Julianne seemed to think Sister Mary Cynthia was on the road to recovery, anyway.

Still, he hoped Sister Julianne didn't misunderstand. Caring for a person with mental illness wasn't easy, and just because she was ready to leave the hospital didn't mean Sister Mary Cynthia's mental illness was gone. "It's quite a journey to full recovery," he tried to explain as gently as he could. "She will still need care."

"Care we can provide for her at Nonnatus House, surely?" Sister Julianne said, just as gently, but also firmly.

Dr. Turner's chest tightened even more. Did she truly understand what kind of care this young nun would need? "Would you like me to call the hospital? I could talk to her psychiatrist in my capacity as her G. P."

But to Dr. Turner's disappointment Sister Julianne shook her head. "I'll come to you if I need help. But I'd like to do as much as possible myself. It's one way of showing how she is loved." He still believed the woman was unprepared for the care Sister Mary Cynthia would require, but at least she was willing to accept help if necessary.

He just hoped that was enough for the young nun.

OOOOOOOOOOO

Besides Sister Mary Cynthia, Patrick still had other patients to be concerned and to treat. There were two patients with diabetes complications, one case of strep throat, and several nervous first-time mothers.

More than that, the tension between the United States and Russia was increasing. According to the media, the world may on the edge of nuclear war. People discussed and worried what families should do in that case everywhere. In his waiting room. On the street. At the grocery. Patrick wished there was something he could do to eliminate their concerns.

But naturally, Patrick worried about Shelagh the most.

One night after she finished packing more items, Shelagh sighed again, her eyes showing unease. Patrick immediately encouraged her to sit on the settee with him. The cushions felt easy and comfortable, like old friends, and she needed to stay calm, especially with her recent miscarriage scare.

"I prayed for this baby, Patrick," she said caressing her growing belly. "And now my prayers have been answered, and I don't know why, because I don't know what kind of world I'm bringing it into. And what about Timothy and Angela?" Her voice sounded more and more anxious as she continued speaking. By her final words, she sounded almost tearful.

Somehow, Patrick had to find a way to keep her calm. He put his hand on top of her belly, touching their child as well. "Shelagh, President Kennedy has a son and a daughter, just like we do. And for all we know, his wife may be pregnant as well. We just have to hope that he'll think like a father as well as a politician."

She stared at him, as if she was afraid to dream that much. Patrick's chest tightened at the idea that Shelagh was so scared to hope. Usually her strong faith allowed her to have more than he did. But apparently not this time. He kissed her, hoping to instill some hope through his love.

"And we're very good at hoping, Shelagh," he said, caressing her stomach again, reminding her of how well that had worked for them before.

Shelagh finally smiled at him.

OOOOOOOOOOOO

Unfortunately, Sister Mary Cynthia hadn't recovered nearly as much as Sister Julianne had hoped at Nonnatus, and Patrick was called in to try to help her. It was no time for smiling now.

His chest tightened as he approached the young nun sitting on the bench outside her home. She looked as sad and overwhelmed as he'd feared she might. Could he really help her just by speaking to her? As carefully as he could, Patrick sat next to her, allowing her to become comfortable with his presence. "I understand your still struggling," he said, pausing to see how she would react.

Sister Mary Cynthia didn't answer.

Chest tightening even more, Patrick tried again. "Did the electric shock treatment help at all?" He knew such treatments were recommended to treat a lot of mental illness, and the _Lancet _spoke favorably of the results of some patients. But Patrick personally preferred the rather different treatments that Northfield offered, because they'd helped him so much.

"It was cleansing," Sister Mary Cynthia finally said. "Things were clearer for a while. I thought I'd continue getting better here. But I failed at Linchemere, and I failed here."

Patrick's chest shattered completely at the term "failed." He knew only too well how easy it was for mental health patients to believe that, and how difficult it was to recover after thinking it. Sister Mary Cynthia couldn't see things like that.

"You haven't failed," he said, speaking a bit more forcefully, hoping to make it clear how serious he was. "You have succeeded by just putting one foot in front of the other. By continuing down that lonely road."

Sister Mary Cynthia's eyes met his when he said "lonely." She looked so sad and confused, and Patrick once again vowed to help her. "It's ever so lonely, Doctor."

Patrick sighed. Now was the time to mention his own history with her brand of loneliness. His heart beat faster and faster as he prepared. Reminding himself that speaking about this was not going to cause a relapse and Sister Mary Cynthia wasn't going to think less of him, he admitted. "I was once as lonely as you are. It was after the war. Because of the war. But I was sent to a place where they walked _with _me while I came out of the darkness."

Sister Mary Cynthia looked at him, hope flashing in her eyes for a moment. "I can't imagine that. And how can I want something I can't imagine? It doesn't make sense."

Patrick knew one thing. He needed to recommend the young nun for treatment at Northfield as soon as possible.

OOOOOOOOOO

"I've referred Sister Mary Cynthia to Northfield," Patrick told Shelagh as he returned home.

Shelagh's small frame peaked out from behind one of the large brown boxes as she finished putting more items inside it. Her face relaxed a little, relieved that Patrick had been able to help their friend and colleague. "I'm certain she'll do well there."

Patrick smiled, happy to see some of her stress had eased. She still worried far too much and needed to stay calm for the sake of their baby. In fact, perhaps he should make her some tea. He let the water boil as he said, "I believe she will. You know I've always been grateful for Northfield, but I didn't realize how lucky I was to go there until today."

"Oh?" Shelagh asked as she placed more items in another box.

"Quite. Sister Mary Cynthia said the electric shock treatment worked for a while… but I don't know. I told her a bit about Northfield, and she seemed to think it was almost too good to be true. I can't help but wonder," he sighed, remembering how isolated and useless he'd felt when he'd first gone to the mental hospital. And how their different treatments had slowly brought him out of it. What if he'd gone somewhere else, that didn't work as well? It made him shiver just thinking about it.

"Patrick," Shelagh said firmly, her head appearing through the hutch. "You don't have to wonder, because you _were_ sent to Northfield, and they did help you."

His eyes met hers, seeing her love. How did she know exactly what he was thinking? "Quite," he said finally.

The tea kettle whistled, breaking the silence, and Patrick immediately prepared the tea. Two spoonful's of milk for him and one for her. "Shelagh, come sit down and have a cup of tea with me. Please."

Shelagh sighed, and to Patrick's relief, finally sat down and relaxed.

OOOOOOOOOOOOO

Much later, Patrick was glad to see Shelagh was already laying in bed as he prepared to sleep himself. He hoped she slept well, rather than let her mind obsess about their move or about the threat of nuclear war that still lingered on everyone's mind.

Shelagh and their baby didn't need the extra stress. Shelagh's haunted face when she discovered the blood on her knickers a couple of months ago still passed through his mind periodically. Their new child had to be healthy.

Suddenly Patrick stared at the empty drawer where his flannel pajamas usually lay. His heart beat faster and faster. Where were they? Distantly, his mind flashed back to the terrible nightmare he'd had the last time he'd slept without them. Timothy's sweet face, dead in place of Private Bryant…

"Shelagh," he said carefully, trying not to add to her stress. "Where are my pajamas?"

"Oh, I think I packed them already," said Shelagh, sounding almost asleep.

Patrick held in his instinct to scream at her, as his heart continued to beat faster, as if he were running in a race. He took several deep breaths. "Which box are they in, Shelagh?"

"I'm not certain," she said, yawning. "Does it really matter?"

Patrick wished he could say, "No, it doesn't matter." He was trying to keep his wife away from stress, rather than add to her worries. But the reality was that it did matter. He needed those pajamas, especially after remembering his experiences at Northfield today, or worse yet, what could have happened if he hadn't been placed in that facility.

"Shelagh," he sighed again. "I'm afraid it does matter. I can't sleep without those pajamas."

He heard a deep sigh from the bed as she sat up. "All right. They may be in the tall box near the hallway."

Patrick placed his hand on her chest squeezing a little. "No, Shelagh. Lay back down. I'll get them myself."

"No, Patrick," she shook her head as she stretched. "You don't know how anything is organized."

Patrick smiled despite the tense situation. That was his Shelagh, organizing everything.

She began pulling several items out of the hallway box, using the light from the moon in the window. "I don't know, Patrick," she yawned again. "Why do you need these again?"

Patrick sighed, hating to add to her anxiety. Perhaps he should try sleeping without them after all. But the terrible dream that enveloped him the last time he'd done that flashed through his mind again. "They help me sleep," he explained again. "I had pajamas like that at… Northfield… and they were so comfortable… , and as I got better, I noticed I slept better in them. If I slept without them… I know the nightmares would be back, Shelagh."

"Oh, Patrick," Shelagh placed her hand on top of his and squeezed it, reminding him she was there and always would be. "I'm sorry. But I promise they'll always be available to you now."

Finally, she pulled out a pair of dark blue flannel pajamas. "Here."

"Thank you, Shelagh." He smiled and kissed her hand as she handed them to him. "I'm sorry for worrying you about this. You already have so much to think of when you should be resting."

Shelagh smiled at him, her blue eyes shining at him in the dim light. "Perhaps but I always worry about you anyway."

He wished she wouldn't, but he supposed she was right. Patrick always worried about her, Timothy, and Angela, too. "Well, let's go to bed, so we don't have to worry anymore tonight."

OOOOOOOOO

Their new house was completely empty the night he, Shelagh, Angela, and Timothy first moved, as their things would not arrive until the next day. Nurse Crane had generously offered them the Cubs' sleeping bags, but their other items were gone.

Including Patrick's flannel pajamas. His heart beat faster and faster again at the thought of sleeping without them, although he tried to remain calm for Shelagh and the children's sake. Instead, he made silly jokes about wee in his sleeping bag.

But when Timothy finally nodded off, Shelagh had a surprise for him. She pulled out a overnight bag she'd been hiding. "I put these aside, just in case we needed them," she smiled at him, pulling out his blue flannel pajamas.

Patrick stared at the pajamas as if they were the entire series of the _Lancet._ And Shelagh was, of course an angel. Just as she always had been. "Thank you," he whispered, unable to say anything else.

Shelagh smiled as he undressed and carefully put on the safe, comfortable pajamas. "Their a gift to me as well, you know. I love the way they feel when I'm snuggled up to you. I just never paused to think why they were so necessary for you."

Patrick smiled and enveloped her in his pajama – clad arms, feeling his heart explode with love. "Now please, go to sleep yourself. You still need to relax more." He patted her belly, indicating why.

Shelagh sighed. "Oh, Patrick," she said. But she climbed into her sleeping bag, much to his relief.


	6. 7 x 5

7 x 5

Patrick completed another report and began another, wishing it wasn't so late. He could see the summer sun fading through the window, and that meant it was past nine o'clock. He tried to finish at least by seven o'clock and spend the evening with his family, especially considering how early Angela was put to bed.

But there was so much panic among the residents of Popular today, that it had been difficult to do any work at the Surgery. A sailor had landed in the neighborhood recently who appeared to have smallpox, and everyone was worried about the deadly disease.

Patrick had heard Shelagh explain to several patients that smallpox doesn't spread that quickly, but even her calm, gentle voice hadn't reassured everyone. Dozens of others still came in, believing any scratch or insect bite was the first sign of the smallpox rash. Then there were the patients that swore a bit of heat flush from the warm air must be the fever.

Poor Mrs. Robinson nearly missed the chance to have her son examined for his ear infection.

He sighed and made another note on the paperwork for the Board of Health, when Nurse Anderson, a new but competent young brown – skinned woman, walked into his office. "Dr. Turner, you're still here."

Patrick nodded, desperately wishing he were home but knowing that was impossible right now. "Unfortunately. Everyone seems to need reassurance because of the sailor with smallpox."

Nurse Anderson looked at him sadly. "I wish I could reassure Eunice Dobson. She's so terrified of another forceps delivery that she doesn't want to give birth. I'm not sure what else I can do alone."

Patrick remembered hearing about Mrs. Dobson a couple of days ago, a woman who'd apparently been too nervous to allow a midwife to examine her pregnancy. He'd hoped Nurse Anderson could calm her eventually, but it seemed that wasn't the case. He smiled at the young woman, who was obviously asking for help. Patrick was always happy to offer his help to a patient, whenever they needed it.

"Then why don't we both go see her?" He paused and glanced at the schedule Shelagh had arranged for him, wondering how his wife could keep everything as organized as she did. "How about tomorrow evening?" he suggested, deciding that period looked available.

Nurse Anderson nodded, relief showing all over her face. "I dislike the notion of any patient being scared."

Dr. Turner nodded, understanding her feelings completely. "Same here. Unfortunately, many right now are just that." He wished he could do more to reassure the locals about the sailor and the smallpox, but right now, he'd have to settle for finishing his paperwork and finally returning home.

OOOOOOOOOOO

Patrick did finally return home, but the next day the surgery was full of panicked patients demanding smallpox vaccinations and worries about possible symptoms. It seemed as if everyone in Popular was afraid of the illness.

Naturally, Shelagh was a marvel, carefully explaining how smallpox was spread and when the vaccination may be available as many times that was necessary. Meanwhile, he tried to keep calm when another patient swore a mosquito bite on his left arm was the beginning of the smallpox rash.

It was a relief to finally visit Eunice Dobson's flat. Nurse Anderson had said she was quite scared, but one patient's anxiety had to be easier to treat than all the people of Popular.

The flat was a nice place; clean, and with much more space than many of his patients had available. Mr. Dobson's mother was also there, to help assist as her daughter – in – law prepared for birth, as well as caring for the couple's older child, Michael. The Dobson's seemed lucky on the surface.

But Eunice Dobson obviously didn't feel lucky. She paced around the flat, looking more and more uncomfortable as Patrick settled himself on their settee, trying to look as non-threatening as possible. He explained that he wished to help her as much as possible. "I know a forceps delivery can be very traumatic," he said calmly. "But the chance of needing a second tune are far less." Would that be enough to reassure her?

Shaking her head, the woman glanced at him briefly. She appeared far more panicked than any of his earlier patients worrying about smallpox. "I can't believe that." She began pacing around the room again, refusing to meet Patrick's eyes. "There's a tape that keeps playing in my head over and over. I've been trying to switch it off all day and night."

"And it keeps coming back on again?" Patrick guessed, remembering all the times he'd tried to push away his terrible memories of the war during his stay at Northfield. For a long time, it seemed the more he pushed them away, the stronger the memories resurfaced.

"I hear the metal clanging," Mrs. Dobson said, pacing again, her voice sounding more and more terrified. "And I can't move. I'm sorry, but I've had the sort of help people like you give, and I don't want it." With that, she ran out of the room.

Mr. Dobson sighed and looked at Patrick, obviously hoping for answers. "I know of someone who's wife had something called a C – section?"

Patrick shook his head. He could understand why Mr. Dobson thought that may be answer, because with a caesarean, the doctors pulled the baby out of the mother's stomach while the woman was sedated. But the young husband obviously didn't understand the risks associated with that operation. "A caesarean is only performed when the mother's life is at stake. Eunice's problem isn't with her pregnancy but with her mind."

Mr. Dobson's mother, Pamela, shook her head as she sat down to talk as well. "I'm sorry, doctor. Her mother didn't bring her up to have things wrong with her mind. Or to make a lot of fuss about nothing. She'll just have to get on with it."

The woman's additude was typical about mental conditions, but it still made Patrick see red. Eunice Dobson needed others to take her fears seriously; it was the only way she would overcome this. "Eunice can't just 'get on with it.'," he said, his voice much louder than it usually was. "Because for her, this isn't about nothing. She is clearly suffering from a phobia. She is going to need an enormous amount of support."

Patrick knew better than anyone how important that support was. How would he have recovered from war neurosis at all if it hadn't been for the wonderful people at Northfield? How could he face any of the painful memories today without his Shelagh?

OOOOOOOOOOOO

But even Shelagh's calming influence couldn't keep him from becoming more and more cross. Mrs. Pamela Dobson's words repeated in his mind over and over again. With every bite of the kidney pie he heard the words, "she'll just have to 'get on with it." Even Teddy's happy coos in the bathtub couldn't cheer Patrick tonight.

Long after the children were asleep, Patrick still couldn't focus on his last bit of paperwork without thinking of Pamela's Dobson's attitude. He wasn't usually a cross person, but somehow her words caused his blood to boil.

Struggling not to break his pen, he tried to finish his paperwork again. But the words, "make a lot of fuss about nothing," and "get on with it" wouldn't leave his head. Hearing that would only cause Eunice Dobson's phobia to become worse. Why couldn't people try to understand mental illness?

"Patrick," Shelagh's voice came from behind him, her soft hand touching his back. "It's late, and you're still not finished yet? Would you like some tea? Or perhaps Nescafé?"

"A Nescafe, perhaps," he agreed, still staring at the words on the paper, wondering if he would ever finish this tonight.

"Quite," Shelagh agreed, leaving the room to prepare it, and Patrick's mind drifted back to Pamelia Dobson's words. Suddenly, a steaming cup was placed under his nose. "Patrick?" she asked as she sat next to him and sipped her own drink. "What's bothering you tonight? Is it still the panic about the smallpox virus?"

"No," he said taking a sip of his own drink, wishing its warmth would cause him to feel better. "I mean, I do wish people weren't so panicked about that, but there's nothing we can do about it until the sailor is found. But I can't stop thinking about Eunice Dobson."

Shelagh's eyes lit up in understanding. "Is she the patient that Nurse Anderson had said was terrified to give birth?"

"Yes," he said. "I hoped if I listened to her fears today, I could reassure her, but she's just too scared to allow me to help." He took another sip of Nescafe. "But that's not the worst part. Her mother – in – law won't take her fears seriously and is belittling her poor daughter – in – law." The words made his blood boil again. "That kind of treatment is far too common with all mental illness."

Shelagh's hand soft hand landed on his shoulder. "Quite." Her fingers began soothing his tight muscles, and Patrick finally felt himself beginning to relax. She was wonderful.

"There were so many soldiers who thought I was too weak to be a doctor during my period with war neurosis," Patrick said, sighing as she continued to work her hands through his muscles. "If it wasn't for the support of the people of Northfield, I would never have recovered at all."

"I'm just happy they were able to help you," her soft voice said, still soothing his shoulders and moving onto his back.

"And even after I left the hospital, my problems weren't over," said Patrick. "Charlotte, my girlfriend at the time, didn't want anything to do with me by then." Her touch was loosening his tongue and causing his fury to disappear, little by little.

Shelagh's hands stopped in mid-stroke. "Truly?" she asked, her blue eyes meeting his. He adored the emotion she showed in them. There wasn't pity; there was hurt. Hurt for him. And love. Always love.

"I'm afraid so," he sighed. He would never forget the frightened, pitying look Charlotte gave him when she announced their relationship was done. It was a look that haunted him for years. "I suppose that's part of the reason why I was so scared to tell you about my war neurosis. Yes, I had been told it would be better not to think about it or speak about it. But Charlotte's reaction… never really left me, either. She made me feel like such a failure at life." He took another sip of his warm drink.

"Patrick," Shelagh stared into his eyes again. "I've told you this before, and I'll say it as many times as you need to hear it. You're not a failure and you never were a failure, no matter what anyone else has said."

"Thank you," he said, hoping to convey how much that meant to him. She stroked his back again, making his body tingle this time.

OOOOOOOOOOOO

His body still tingled as Patrick returned to his paperwork. But with the Nescafe in his system, he was able to finish it. Shelagh met his eyes as she sipped her own drink, causing them to feel even warmer than the beverages

"There," Patrick smiled at her, finally putting down his pen. Shelagh retuned his smile as she finished her Nescafe. The caffeinated drinks had certainly given them a bit more energy. Before he knew it, her tender hands began rubbing his shoulders again, increasing the heat between them.

It felt wonderful, and Patrick felt compelled to kiss her hand. Her eyes told him she always knew exactly what it meant. Before they knew it, their lips landed on each other's, kissing softly, deeply, and gently.

"Teddy is already asleep," Shelagh reminded him, whispering against his ear. Then she pressed her lips to his again.

"Would you like to go upstairs?" Patrick asked when they pulled apart.

Nodding, Shelagh took his hand and headed for their bedroom.

He couldn't stop staring at her as she began slowly taking off her blouse, her skirt, and her stockings. The moonlight made her appear almost ethereal. More like the angel he always knew her to be. "Shelagh," he whispered. How could this woman possibly love him? Charlotte's face flashed through his mind briefly, but he pushed it away.

Before he knew it, Shelagh's tender hands were on him, removing his tie. Then his oxford. "Patrick," she whispered as she felt bare chest, playing with his dark hair. Her warm hands made him tingle all over again. She truly did love him.

"Oh, Shelagh," he said, in complete awe as his hands touched her bare skin. "I love you."

Her blue eyes met his in surprise. They so rarely said that out loud. But she smiled softly and whispered, "I love you, too," into his backside. How could this woman make him feel this wonderful?

Wrapping his hands around her, he kissed her, making everything explode between them. Soon, they landed on the bed and removed their undergarments. "Oh, Patrick," she whispered, staring into his eyes full of tenderness and love. Love he knew she'd never had for anyone else. Shelagh had chosen him. Would always choose him.

Love he always felt for her, especially when he was inside her completely.

OOOOOOOOOOOOO

Love Patrick still felt for Shelagh, when their patients continued to panic about the sailor and the smallpox virus. Fortunately, the sailor was eventually found by Reggie, a young man with Mongol Syndrome who was cared for by Fred and Violet. Once he'd been found, it was clear the sailor never had smallpox in the first place. He was quickly put on a waiting list for Hanson's Disease treatment center, and the local panic began to die.

Still, Eunice Dobson's panic hadn't died. That was quite apparent when Shelagh woke him in the middle of the night. The young woman was in labor, and Nurse Anderson was unsure about handling the terrified woman by herself.

Patrick immediately dressed, hearing Eunice Dobson's scared voice and picturing her terrified eyes. Would her mother – in – law still be there, belittling her? He desperately hoped he could help the young woman.

To his surprise, Shelagh dressed as well. "I know I don't attend home deliveries anymore, but this is different. This patient needs all the help we can give her. I've just given Teddy his bottle, and Timothy will be here, if necessary."

Patrick's hand immediately met hers and gave a squeeze. She was amazing. "If you'd like to come, it's a great idea, and I'm certain Nurse Anderson will agree."

Sighing, Shelagh's eyes refused to meet his. "It's not that I would _like_ to come, Patrick. I really hate to leave Teddy, and I don't know if Timothy is truly ready to watch his baby brother. But Eunice Dobson needs me, too…"

Shelagh had such a big heart, and it was often divided between her need to care for their patients and her need to care for their children. Kissing her hand, he said, "Shelagh, Teddy will be fine if he's already had his bottle. And Timothy is responsible enough to care for Teddy this once. Remember how great he was with Angela when she was a baby?"

Nodding, Shelagh's blue eyes finally met his. Then they left their home.

OOOOOOOOOOOO

They arrived at the Dobson home. Fortunately, it seemed Mrs. Pamela Dobson was gone, but Nurse Anderson was still uncertain how to proceed with the labor. "She'd locked herself in the bathroom when I got here," Nurse Anderson said, her eyes widening in uncertainty. "I don't know what she might've been doing in there… I managed to get her out, but now…" she shook her head.

"You can keep her calm," Shelagh said to the other nurse. "You've already made it this far."

Patrick looked at both nurses and decided they would be better at helping Eunice Dobson than he would be. If the patient had bad memories because of a forceps delivery, seeing a doctor might cause her even more anxiety. Hadn't Eunice already told him, "I've seen the kind of help people that you give, and I don't want it"? And both Shelagh and Nurse Anderson were excellent midwives and great at keeping patients calm.

"You should go in Shelagh," he told his wife, sitting on the settee. "My presence won't help her."

OOOOOOOOOOO

Even without his flannel pajamas, Patrick became so tired, sitting on the Dobson settee, he kept closing his eyes. Of course, he forced himself away minutes later. He hated to think of the nightmares he might have tonight without his pajamas. Especially with the patient screams in the next room.

Eventually the screams ceased, and Shelagh appeared. She looked even more beautiful than ever, as she had just help a patient overcome a phobia and deliver a healthy new baby. She claimed Nurse Anderson had been the most help, but he knew his Shelagh had done just as much for Eunice Dobson.

Shelagh was so good at helping people with physical and mental aliments.

"Can we go home now?" she asked after they finished checking the baby. "I want to see my baby again. And Timothy, of course. And isn't there supposed to be a community picnic today? We might still be able to take our family if we hurry."

Smiling, he nodded.

**As it is tagged, this story is complete for now.**

**I **_**may**_** add more to it when I finally see season eight (and if there are other seasons after that), if I can find episodes that it this story. But it won't be for a long time, so I think it's better to consider the story done.**

**Thank you for all the reviews.**


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